


Viscount

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fenris is a saint, Hawke has a temper, Hawke needs a nap, M/M, Panic Attack Mention, Reaver-Templar!Hawke, Viscount Hawke - Freeform, allusion to past slavery, being Viscount is incredibly stressful, so does Cullen tbh, templar ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Hawke is made Viscount. It's a good thing he has Fenris, or he would have a lot more trouble handling the politics of a city-state in turmoil.





	Viscount

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GothicPrincessWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicPrincessWitch/gifts).



> Written for a follower giveaway on my [tumblr,](http://stitchcasual.tumblr.com) for the request of my canon Hawke adjusting to life as Viscount.

The immediate aftermath is easy. There are procedures in place for this sort of thing, if not  _ exactly _ this sort of thing. A new Viscount’s circlet is forged, and Hawke doesn’t have the time to wonder which smith Bran bullied into civic duty before he’s kneeling in the Viscount’s throne room, swearing to now Knight-Commander Cullen, the only other real authority left in the city, that he will do his best to safeguard and shepherd the citizens of Kirkwall. It’s a formality; with the weight of the Templars’ support behind him, none of the nobles of Kirkwall present as witnesses will dispute this claim, even if by rights they should be able to.

Fenris’s presence is solid behind him, implacable, unperturbed. He’s been the shadow at Hawke’s elbow since the Templars first knelt to Hawke while Knight-Commander Meredith calcified in the courtyard of the Gallows. It’s as unnerving as it is comforting, knowing that Fenris is there yet always a half-step behind him. When Hawke sneaks a glance at Fenris during the ceremony, the elf’s eyes wrinkle and soften at him, even as his spiked gauntlets remain crossed in front of his body, the Blade of Mercy hooked prominently on his back. Fenris doesn't face Cullen: he's become Hawke’s bodyguard, watching the assembled masses for any hint of a threat.

They’ve barely had a chance to check in with each other since the battle, only managing to pass out for a few hours in an antechamber in the non-ruined portion of the Keep, stacked against each other like the armor that covered their bodies. Bran woke them that morning, brisk and unsympathetic, to begin the preparations for Hawke’s coronation. Knight-Commander Cullen stood behind him, pale and drawn and apologetic, but at least with him there Hawke grudgingly went along with the whole affair. Each time Hawke managed to catch a glimpse of Fenris, always just behind him and just to the right, Fenris inclined his head a touch and looked away, eyes scanning their surroundings.

After Cullen places the circlet upon Hawke’s head and presents the assembled nobles with their new Viscount to muted and scattered applause, Bran insists mingling is not only traditional but necessary. So Hawke trails after him for a while, nostrils flaring at each successive aristocrat as Bran reacquaints him with all the people he’d never bothered to remember when he lived in Hightown. They run together, and Hawke knows he’s going to have to bother Bran to remind him who all these people are again the next time he has to see them. And the time after that...and likely the one after that. Eventually Hawke snaps too harshly at some important lord or other, and Bran lets him retreat to a corner and compose himself. Not too many minutes later, however, Bran begins leading the rest of the nobles to Hawke. The new Viscount meets every single one of the rotten, rich bastards before the night is over.

At least the Viscount’s suites, or most of them, remain in tact enough to sleep in, and Hawke is grateful for small victories as he takes a quick circuit of the room, making sure the corners don't hide malcontents intent on causing him harm. Satisfied, he begins peeling off layer after layer of the fancy attire Bran had forced him into. He’d rather have worn his armor, the Champion plate the city-state had given him for services rendered, but somehow it hadn’t been deemed appropriate. He tries not to be bitter that Fenris and Cullen wore their armor. His hands pause at the ties to his breeches, and he turns back toward the door. Fenris stands there on the threshold, looking somewhat lost as he gazes into the room then out at the hall. 

Hawke abandons the laces in favor of pulling out the two knives he'd secreted in his boots before taking those off as well. He examines the blades, running a thumb across their edges, before placing them on the room’s desk and turning to Fenris. Their eyes meet, and Hawke jerks his head and gestures into the room with a shoulder.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, thumbs inside the waist of his pants. The former-Champion-now-Viscount of Kirkwall has no shame, but Fenris does, and as Hawke pushes the garment down his legs, Fenris spurs into motion, stepping into the room and closing the door. He stills again, just inside, discomfort plain in the quiet twitching of his hands. Hawke straightens, drawing his pants back up his body, and crosses the room. He reaches out to Fenris, wraps one hand around a gauntlet and rests the other on a shoulder, and tugs lightly. Fenris deflates into the embrace, curling an armored forearm delicately around Hawke's unclothed waist. They close the space between them, and Hawke presses his head against Fenris’s when he hears a soft sigh. He shifts his hand from Fenris’s shoulder to run it through that white hair, hold on to the back of his head, squeeze just a little with his fingers.

“I couldn’t have done that without you,” Hawke says, voice low to spare his overworked throat. Something unknots in Fenris, and Hawke feels his shoulders relax further.

“Mm, not without bloodshed, at least.” There's something still coiled up inside Fenris, showing in the way he strains to speak normally, so Hawke pulls away though he keeps hold of Fenris’s hand. He thumbs at the catches on the gauntlet with a questioning eyebrow and at Fenris’s nod, begins the process of unarmoring him. Both gauntlets first, sliding off over Fenris’s fingers which flex and stretch once freed, and Hawke tosses them onto the bed. He takes a step farther into the room, drawing Fenris with him. Inch by inch Hawke moves Fenris away from the door, leaving a trail of armor pieces as he goes.

Finally he backs into the desk and leans against it, spreading his legs and settling Fenris between them. His right hand fits up against Fenris’s jaw and guides their lips together for a short, sweet kiss. Fenris unwinds a touch more. 

“Lord Tullinmont was asking for it,” Hawke murmurs when he breaks away to set his forehead against Fenris’s.

Fenris snorts, then laughs, his shoulders shaking. “He was,” he agrees, closing his eyes and soaking in the nearness of Hawke, the comfort it brings. “But you are the Viscount now: you cannot brawl with each noble you find trying.”

“At least the population would reach a more manageable number if I did.” Fenris squints his eyes open to glare at him and Hawke sighs. “But I won't.”

Fenris hums. “It is not your place anymore to solve the city's ills with your blade, Hawke.” His voice is light, soft, apologetic, but Hawke still feels it like a fist to his unarmored gut. “You must be the leader they need.”

“And who will step in when the Guard and the Templars fail to keep order, as they have in the past?” Hawke challenges, pulling away a few inches. 

“It is your job now to see it does not get that far.” 

Hawke blows out an angry breath and lets his head fall backward. “Why did I agree to this, Fenris?” he asks the ceiling, already feeling the weight of the mantle of office settled heavy on his shoulders.

His answer is a kiss from Fenris, placed gently on the hidden spot on his chin where his beard doesn’t grow quite as thick. He huffs and Fenris kisses it again.

“Because you have always done what this city needed of you, despite the personal cost. Because you know it needs you now more than ever.”

“You make me sound like a good man.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you are simply a loyal man, unable to refuse the call to duty.”

“Maker knows why,” Hawke grumbles.

“Or perhaps the Maker has a sense of humor.” 

Hawke’s head lolls back upright, and he pokes a finger into Fenris’s side. “At least someone does, I suppose. Though,” he considers, eying Fenris, “you seem to be handling this...situation rather well.”  _ Better than me _ is the unspoken conclusion to the sentence.

“It is...familiar.” Fenris’s eyes dart to the side then fix back to a point somewhere on Hawke’s chest. “I have been a bodyguard before.”

“You don’t have to be my bodyguard, Fenris.” The corner of Hawke’s mouth turns down, and his eyebrows make tracks above his nose as they twitch together. “I won’t make you do that; Aveline can recommend me one of the Guardsmen.”

Fenris snorts in derision and shakes his head. “No one knows you better than I do, Hawke. No one else knows how you could have struck down Lord Tullinmont where he stood in three moves if you had chosen to, or which way you are more likely to step if your life is threatened. No,” he says, giving his head another firm shake. “Besides, what would I do all day if I were not by your side?”

“Dance from room to room?” Hawke offers. 

Fenris returns his small smile, but his voice is hard when he speaks again. “I will not sit idle as a kept elf while you risk your life piecing this city back together.”

Hawke laughs. “ _ Risk my life? _ I’m safer as Viscount than I have been the last seven years.”

“At least three nobles at the coronation have current designs on your person, and I suspect another four of harboring intent.”

Hawke blinks. “I only saw the two.”

Fenris grimaces. “Not everyone broadcasts their intents so...obviously.”

“Not obvious enough for anyone else to see.”

“Which is why you need me, Hawke.” Fenris places one hand on either side of Hawke’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Protecting you is something I have done for many years now, and I do it willingly. You are important to me. I would not lose you.”

Hawke growls, nostrils flaring. “And how am I supposed to protect  _ you?” _ He raises a hand and lets it thump back against his leg. 

It’s Fenris’s turn to blink. “You aren’t.”

“Sod that. I’m talking to Aveline tomorrow.”

“Hawke.” Fenris moves his hands from Hawke’s face to grip his hands. He takes a half step back and holds their hands between their bodies, squeezing tightly. “Hear me. I  _ want _ to guard you. Allow me this. I would trust your life in no one’s hands but my own.”

The moment stretches between them, and Hawke’s eyes dart down, contemplating the rug on the floor beneath them. Hawke supposes it would be considered tasteful, the design not outlandish or woven in too-bright colors, but he lacks the eye for such things. His strong suit has always been blades, their manufacture and applied use. He could tell the tasks most suited for a particular knife from looking at it, feeling its weight, thumbing its edge. Upholstery was never something his family particularly concerned itself with, on the move as they tended to be. His mother occasionally lamented the lack of rugs or furnishings that truly belonged to them, as the only one in the family who had grown up with that sort of thing, but the rest of them never minded much.

Finally he sighs, squeezing Fenris’s hands back even tighter. “Since it seems I can’t stop you… Can you at least guard me from the bed now?” He pushes off the desk and turns to back toward the bed, his hands still wrapped around Fenris’s. Fenris chuckles and allows himself to be pulled, lying on Hawke’s chest when they get settled under the plush comforter. He tucks his head up under Hawke’s chin, one hand playing patterns on Hawke’s shoulder, and only lets himself fall asleep after Hawke’s breathing evens out and his body grows lax.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next week is the most trying of Hawke’s life. Denied his armor and his sword each morning when Bran comes to collect him for the day’s meetings, Hawke grows surly, only prevented from rising from the table and launching himself at a stuck up noble by Fenris’s barely audible throat clearing. The circlet on his head weighs him down, and when Bran ushers the noble from the room to allow Hawke a few moments of peace, he removes it from his head, gripping the metal so tightly in his hand that his fingers shake when he drops it to the table. He stares at the angry marks it leaves on his palm, harsh lines where the circlet bit into his skin. He watches as the marks deepen and closes his fist around them. Later that night Fenris will take Hawke’s hands in his and run his thumbs over the intricate indentations, soothing their ache, but for now, they still have a half a day of meetings to go.

The audiences are happening in a side room off the main hall, not actually too far from where Hawke and Fenris have set up their residence in the Viscount’s suites. Bran had protested this, since the throne room is more or less usable, and indeed they  _ had _ used it for the coronation, but Hawke can barely stand to be in that room for any length of time before his chest begins to ache from breaths that won’t come, lungs that feel as though they’ve been punctured again, muscles that twitch in helpless agony as they relive the monstrous duel. Being unarmed and unarmored as he is only makes it worse.

While Hawke understands the symbolism of opening up the throne room again, indeed agrees with Bran that they should, Bran has no means of physically forcing him to do so. Fenris will not and, if Hawke is any judge, he has much the same inclination to avoid that room for as long as possible. Knight-Commander Cullen is currently too busy managing the Gallows to stop by often or for long but likely would not put much effort into swaying Hawke either. So for now, the doors stay closed and two bored Guardsmen rotate on and off duty protecting an empty chamber.

Hawke rests his head on his unmarked hand and lets out a long, slow breath. With barely a sound, Fenris’s gauntleted hand settles on Hawke’s shoulders, the claws carefully wrapping around the flesh hidden inside the ridiculous clothing Hawke wears now. Hawke leans into the touch and they remain that way until Bran knocks politely at the door. Then they straighten, Fenris moving back a small pace while Hawke bows his head to place the circlet back upon his braids.

At the end of that first week, alone in their room, Hawke sits on the edge of the bed with his head bowed though his eyes angle up to watch Fenris as he racks his armor. The Champion plate has a stand too, though its only use is collecting dust now. Fenris moves slowly, every stretch of his arms and twist of his body calculated and precise, and the process is one both he and Hawke know by heart. There’s something... _ off _ about the way Fenris has done this of late, however, as though it’s a performance rather than a ritual. Hawke can’t quite figure out what is going on though, and Fenris hasn’t offered any insight.

On that note, Fenris hasn’t offered much of anything this last week, aside from the occasional quiet remark to keep Hawke’s rage in check. He’s all but disappeared into the background of Hawke’s life, following him rather than walking beside him. And Maker take him but Hawke has let him, allowed the brightest part of his life to fade because it was easier than dragging his focus away from their burning wreck of a city. He raises his head and looks directly at Fenris, who makes minute adjustments to the way his armor sits before running his hands over Hawke’s, not touching the plate, just checking it.

“Fenris…”

The elf’s green-eyed gaze is on him immediately, and he turns to face Hawke fully.

“Is there something you need, Hawke?”

And there it is, the answer, the reason Hawke’s been looking for. He holds out a hand and Fenris moves to take it, striding forward until he stands in front of Hawke at the bedside, polite query on his face.

“You don’t say my name the way you used to.”

Fenris’s eyes widen and he looks down and to the side, like he’s searching his memory to see if what Hawke says is true. His lips part and he pulls his hand from Hawke's, rocking back a step as if struck. Hawke is on his feet an instant later, arms outstretched but not touching him, not yet.

He hadn’t noticed at first, the way Fenris’s voice had lowered, adopted an air of deference he hadn’t used with Hawke in years. Fenris hardly ever spoke harshly or loudly in the first place, but his tone had softened even further until the only reason Hawke heard him at all was that he was so attuned to the particular cadence of Fenris’s speech that he could pick it out of a crowded room without thinking. With the amount of people Hawke usually had clamoring for and demanding his attention, with the city still so on edge in the wake of the worst tragedy in years, was it any wonder that he’d focused outward, focused on all the civilians who desperately needed aid, focused on the Guard and the Templars who desperately needed support, and missed what was happening behind his back?

_ It is...familiar, _ Fenris had said. Perhaps too familiar, Hawke realizes belatedly, and his arms drop to his sides. He stands only a few feet from Fenris, but Fenris is years away, fighting through the memories of a time long ago but not long forgotten. How much simpler things had been when Fenris’s demons manifested in Kirkwall as people Hawke could strike down at Fenris’s side. He can’t touch ghosts. 

“I…” Fenris says, then closes his mouth again, furrowing his eyebrows with intensity. They stand in silence for a few minutes more, avoiding each other’s gaze, neither certain how to proceed from here. In a way, this is more difficult for Hawke than the countless meetings he’s been to already: he cares about the favorable outcomes of those meetings, of course, and it matters greatly to him that the city is well cared for, but he cares for Fenris more, Fenris matters more to him  _ personally _ . Hawke tries very hard not to think of what he would do if Fenris asked him to leave Kirkwall and if he would truly be able to choose between responsibility and love. 

Hawke raises his hands again until they’re at approximately Fenris’s shoulder height and makes a kneading gesture. “May I?” Fenris looks baffled at the motion, and Hawke exhales heavily, his hands clenching. He’d hoped it would make sense enough to avoid further talking but clearly his sign language is not good enough.

“I want to take care of you, Fenris. Will you let me give you a massage?” He makes the kneading gesture again and sees the comprehension brighten Fenris’s eyes though he doesn’t move toward Hawke yet. 

“If you insist,” Fenris replies, but his tone misses jocular to instead hit subdued acceptance, the smile on his lips too tight and too forced. Hawke drops his hands again.

“I don’t insist. You are free to accept or decline, as always.”

Hawke backs up until he hits the bed and sits down where he had been, letting his gaze rest on Fenris’s bare feet. Hard feet, calloused and tough, feet that had carried Fenris leagues away from his old life in Tevinter only to fall into the same pattern of following the leader. The toes of those feet curl under and then straighten and flex, as if they’ve made a decision, and Hawke watches as they walk slowly toward him. The bed sinks under Fenris’s weight, and without a word, Fenris folds his legs in front of him and turns so his back is toward Hawke.

The Viscount of Kirkwall tucks one leg under him, resting the other on the floor, and devotes nearly the next full hour to digging his fingers, palms, and arms into Fenris’s back and, after receiving a positive response, the rest of him as well. He rubs Fenris like he can communicate better that way, as though each knot he undoes speaks his apologies and promises this time won’t be like the last time. When at last Fenris is limp and relaxed, lying on the bed half-dressed, Hawke gathers him into his arms, holding tight the most precious thing in his world. Fenris hums, a contented sound that Hawke doesn’t remember hearing anytime in the recent past, and they drift off to sleep together.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It doesn’t grow much easier from there. Knight-Commander Cullen has a makeshift Chantry set up inside the Gallows, but enough voices are raised in protest over that move that Hawke has Cullen shift services into the Keep. Fewer people express outrage at this, and the ones that do are told to either shut up about it or contribute more toward the Chantry’s rubble clearing and reconstruction efforts. They tend to quit after that. Hawke would prefer extra donations but has to grit his teeth and take what he gets.

Lyrium shipments to the Templars were disrupted in the wake of Kirkwall’s unrest, and Knight-Commander Meredith’s demise did nothing to assuage the fears of their suppliers that Kirkwall was now safe enough to do business with again. With more frequent brushes of his hand through his hair, Cullen reports to Hawke that the Templars are running on half rations then third rations then quarter, this despite all his efforts to open trade with the dwarves again. Hawke himself, at the beginning of the shortage a few months after his coronation, cuts his doses down to near nothing, insisting that Cullen use it, to the extent he can, to bolster the Templar forces.

“It’s not like I’m using it,” he says that evening, offering a glass of wine to the Templar before pouring one for himself. Cullen raises a hand to decline, sighs, and instead gestures for his own glass. Hawke smiles knowingly though it doesn't reach his eyes. Most smiles don't, these days. Fenris watches from the door, still on guard though this meeting is after-hours when all the citizens have gone from the Keep.

“Still,” Cullen hedges, “we can’t have our Viscount suffering from lyrium withdrawal at a time like this.” He perches on the edge of the table, mirroring Hawke’s posture. The new gold inlay in his pauldrons gleams in the low candlelight. To hear Cullen speak of it, it’s too gaudy and unnecessary an indication of his new rank. To hear the new Knight-Captain or the rest of the rank and file tell it, it’s not nearly enough.

Hawke waves a hand and doesn’t look Cullen directly in the eyes. “Your men are more important to the physical safety of the people than I am. Besides, I don’t technically qualify for a lyrium ration anyway: I’m not on your roster.”

“Be that as it may, Kirkwall will fall apart just as surely without a steady hand at her head than if there is disorder in the streets.” Cullen nods at the hands Hawke has wrapped around the stem and bowl of his wineglass. The liquid inside tilts in gentle waves. “The stress you’re already under doesn’t help. Don’t let it get worse.”

“Varric is already looking for a replacement supply chain for me,” Hawke says, as though Cullen hadn’t spoken. He can feel Fenris’s eyes on him but when he looks up, Fenris’s attention is already fixed elsewhere. “I’ll see if he can add the Gallows to his list of potential clients or at least make inroads with getting your previous suppliers back on track.”

Cullen nods and sips at his wine. “It would be appreciated. Our efforts in the matter have met with little success. I will cut rations and rotate the men to mitigate the effects as best I can until this shortage clears.”

Their talk turns to other matters, the state of the mages from Kirkwall’s Circle who have remained at the Gallows, the efforts to fully clear Kirkwall’s streets of the rubble that fell from the Chantry, and the new Templar recruits who have joined up since the explosion, until Cullen, his wineglass empty and a refill waved off, stands with his apologies to head back to his duties at the Gallows. Hawke walks him to the massive front doors of the Keep, through the echoing, empty hallways, and they clasp forearms at the threshold.

“Get some sleep.”

Cullen’s lips twitch up at one corner and he snorts softly. “I’ll set aside a few hours this week if you do.” He and Hawke share a tired laugh, and the two Templars standing on either side of the open doors fall in as Cullen strides down the avenue.

The shaking in Hawke’s hands persists even once the lyrium shortage ends, a full year after it started, and he’s able to resume his regular doses. Sparring with Fenris in the meantime, once Hawke convinces him that the extra missed sleep will be worth it, helps some. He always feels stronger the day after they spar, in any case, although they are unable to keep to a regular schedule due to the demands of Hawke’s office. 

Banditry in Hightown rotates several sets of nobles in and out of audience chamber, each demanding louder and more shrilly that something be done about it. Hawke visits a beleaguered Guard Captain Aveline and they spend a few minutes roundly cursing the nobility before she pulls out the patrol schedule. The next time the nobles visit, Hawke explains just why it is the Guard can’t double up patrols in Hightown and let Lowtown, Darktown, and the Docks fend for themselves, all while trying to not rise from his seat and strangle the entitled sods.

The clearing and reconstruction of the Chantry proceeds apace, that is to say, slowly and without much visible progress. The makeshift Chantry in the Keep sees a lot of foot traffic, enough to prompt Hawke to move it to a larger space in the audience chamber he had been using. Much as he may not want to, Hawke reopens the throne room for audiences. He pores over the schedule Bran has made for the open hours when anyone can petition the Viscount and, after several grueling hours and concessions from both of them, the times are amended to allow Hawke to vacate the throne room every few hours for a little while before coming back.

He sits in a secluded courtyard during these times, Fenris cross-legged beside him, allowing the Guardsmen posted at the gate to take up the bulk of his duties for the hour he and Hawke have nearly to themselves. Sometimes they stay in silence, watching the flowers and trees around them, and if Hawke’s eyes close and he lists a little to one side, there’s no one around to see the Viscount’s momentary weakness. Other times they talk softly, heads bent together, of things as unrelated to Kirkwall’s situation as they can: how Sebastian fares in Starkhaven, speculation of the adventures Isabela must be having on her new ship, fantasies of running off to join her. But always when they sit, Hawke removes the circlet, placing it in front of him on the ground, mildly shocked it doesn’t dig furrows into the dirt. He dusts it off carefully when they stand to leave.

It has a special stand Bran had fashioned that Hawke places it on at night, and every few months Bran will have someone to the Keep to polish the metal so it continues to gleam and doesn’t tarnish. In a very real sense, the office of the Viscount and the circlet are one, inextricably tied to each other. It was not the beheading of Viscount Dumar that heralded the end of his reign; it was the circlet rolling free down the steps of the throne room. Hawke never feels the weight of his office so much as when he places the ring of metal upon his head. He is nearly himself when he doesn’t wear it, though the circlet has left its mark on him nonetheless. Perhaps not in any physical way, no more grooves on his hand, but deep trenches in his heart and on his soul, responsibilities he will never truly be rid of except in death.

Fenris helps him straighten the angle of the circlet on his braids before they leave the courtyard, and they walk together back to the throne room.


End file.
